The Jameson Forensics Investigators’ Files: The Case of the Missing Banker by KM Rockwood

On April 28, Connie Berry presented the readers of Writers Who Kill with a puzzle. She gave us a set of clues and challenged us to write a solution. Today, I’m presenting my proposed solution.

During the COVID pandemic, I had moved the office of Jameson Forensic Investigators to the front first-floor rooms of my five-story brownstone rowhouse.

Both the agency and the rowhouse had been bequeathed to me by my late husband, God rest his soul.

Most aspects of the move suited me. I must admit I am somewhat reclusive, and now I seldom had reason to leave the building. Should I wish to work into the wee hours, or if inspiration struck in the middle of the night, all my resources were right at hand.

A related disadvantage, however, was that it could be problematic to separate private life from professional one.

This morning, Sierra, my assistant, came dashing into the tiny breakfast room in the rear of the house where I sat savoring my third cup of French roasted Tanzanian peaberry coffee and the most delectable pecan-topped sticky bun. With Irish butter.

I have given a strict standing order that I am not to be disturbed until my morning repast is complete.

Usually, Sierra respects that, but every once in a while her enthusiasm and anxiety to get moving on a case overwhelms her self-control.

Today was apparently one of those days.

Since Sierra is a loyal and competent employee, I am inclined to overlook the occasional transgression.

Our newly acquired case involved investigating fraud and money laundering perpetrated by a British investment banker, Martyn Whyte, who was now missing. A strong lead had surfaced when a man was found murdered as a cruise ship docked in Miami at the termination of a voyage along the east coast of South America and the Caribbean. The shipping company identified him as Juan Cabrera, a native of Peru, travelling on a Peruvian passport.

He was, however, also in possession of a British passport in the name of Martyn Whyte. The British government verified that it was a valid passport.

In addition to files provided by the British insurance agency concerning the original crime, my office was currently in possession of copies of the reports written by those investigating the murder.

With a sigh, I popped the remaining luscious bite of sticky bun into my mouth and pushed the coffee to the side of the table, where its enchanting aroma continued to tickle my nostrils.

Sierra needed no prompting to launch into speech. “Tilda, I see you got the encrypted files from the British insurance company,” she said. “Have you had an opportunity to look at them?”

“Yes,” I patted my lips with a linen napkin, embroidered with the image of a cherry-topped pastry. “They arrived last night.”

“What did you find?”

“Exactly what I expected to find.”

“Which was?”

“That immediately following last year’s internal audit, one Martyn Whyte, investment banker, established five new accounts and deposited several hundred thousand pounds in each one in installments over the following eleven months. Then, just prior to this year’s audit, he transferred the funds, closed the accounts and disappeared.”

“And has anyone seen him since?”

“Certainly the insurance company has yet to find anyone who has. And they are looking.”

“What happened to the money?”

“Tracing it is difficult, although not impossible. There are indications that the majority of the funds went to banks in Rio de Janeiro and Suriname.”

“Did that cruise ship dock in those ports?”

“Yes, she did. And passengers were encouraged to disembark for the day.”

“Did they?”

“Many did.”

“How about Juan Cabrera?”

“The ship’s records indicate that he did not, but a member of the crew is certain that he saw him ashore in both those ports. It struck him as odd that, although Señor Cabrera was dressed in casual tourist-type clothing, he appeared to be headed toward the business district instead of availing himself of the usual attractions.”

Sierra jumped up. “Shall I book us on a flight to Miami?”

I raised my eyebrows. “And why, pray tell, would you do that?”

“The crime was uncovered in Miami. The witnesses and the evidence is there. We need to investigate.”

“Good heavens. Before we go dashing hither and yon, we must make sure such a move is absolutely necessary. We need to analyze the information which we already have in our possession. Go down to the office while I finish my breakfast. I will join you shortly.”

A half hour later, dressed in business attire from the waist up, in case of an unanticipated on-line meeting, but with sweatpants and fuzzy slippers below, I entered my book-lined office and sat in the high-backed leather executive desk chair.

The comforting scent of leather, old books and fresh tobacco filled the air.

I had participated successfully in a smoking-cessation program, but never lost my appreciation of the rich odor of fresh tobacco. I had some delivered weekly, and kept it in a stone potpourri holder with a decorative grilled top.

Sierra had pulled up the relevant encrypted files on my computer, spread the notes out on my desk and sat in her chair, fidgeting with her notebook and pen.

I eased myself into the chair and turned off the computer monitor. I find the glare to be distracting when I am trying to think, and I doubted I would have further need for that information. Then I removed my feet from the slippers.

“First,” I said, closing my eyes to concentrate. “I think we can discount both of Juan Cabrera’s supposed identities.”

“Why is that?” Sierra asked.

“Señor Cabrera’s accent is described as ‘Spanish.’ We can assume that, on a cruise traveling up the east coast of South America, many passengers and virtually all the crew will be comfortably bilingual, if not trilingual. Such people would be no more likely to describe a Peruvian accent as ‘Spanish’ then they would describe a Texas drawl as ‘British.’ So we can discount the validity of the Peruvian identity.”

“And the Martyn Whyte passport?”

“Again, the accents are at odds with that identity. Also, look at the photocopies we have of the passports.”

Sierra moved the photocopies under the light. “The pictures aren’t identical, but they do appear to be the same person.”

“Yes. Check the birthdates.”

“Martyn Whyte is twenty-two years older than Juan Cabrera!”

“Exactly. The victim is described as in his thirties. But Martyn Whyte is considerably older. Much more in line with what one would expect in age and experience for a trusted investment banker. Had there been a discrepancy in the birth date with the British records, it would have been noticed when the validity of the passport was questioned. Which it was when the passport was found. It is less likely, however, that such a check would uncover a false photograph.”

Sierra chewed on the end of her pen. “So who was Juan Cabrera?”

“We may never know. But I suspect he was a Spaniard stationed in South American to facilitate Martyn Whyte’s transfer of funds. Possibly a plant from the gambling syndicate to which Mr. Whyte was indebted. Señor Cabrera had covered his tracks as much as possible by acquiring the accruements of a South American tourist. He undoubtedly was in Peru to obtain a fraudulent Peruvian passport. It may have taken several days for the passport to be prepared. In the interim, he continued to play the part of tourist, as evidenced by the picture in Macho Piccho.”

“The British passport could be authenticated. Wouldn’t they do the same with the Peruvian one?”

“The British maintain excellent, easily accessed records. I fear those in Peru may be less accurate and more susceptible to error or falsification.”

“He must have been travelling with someone else. Otherwise who took his picture? And why would he have it on his cellphone?”

My eyes still closed, I leaned back in my comfortable chair. “Any number of people will gladly take your picture, especially if you are willing to pay a small amount for the service. It was part of his cover. To have a tourist-type photo be the first thing that pops up on the cellphone would tend to defuse suspicions that Señor Cabrera was merely playing that role, should anyone have occasion to access his phone.”

Sierra frowned. “So what do you think happened?”

“Let’s take a look at the couple next door. They are somewhat older. Does it strike you as reasonable that people would embark on a pleasure cruise such as this one unless they were quite convinced that they were not likely suffer from profound seasickness?”

“Well, no. But suppose it was their first cruise?”

“Not impossible, but also not exactly a likely voyage for a first-timer. And there is no record of them visiting the ship’s doctor for relief.”

“So you don’t think they were ill?”

“I didn’t say that. I do think they may never have been on such a cruise before, but were quite anxious not to call attention to themselves. Hence no trip to the doctor.”

Sierra picked up the notes and reread a few paragraphs. “Do you think they were really seasick?”

“I think it was in our Señor Cabrera’s best interest that they be incapacitated. And seasickness would be a convenient explanation.”

“Why would he want them incapacitated?”

“Suppose the man in the cabin next door was, in fact, Martyn Whyte? Traveling, like Señor Cabrera, on a fake passport. His intention would have been to visit banks in Brazil and Suriname to transfer the money on to yet another location. But if he were too ill to do that, someone else would have to take care of business. Someone with a passport identifying him as Martyn Whyte. Someone who could use the cruise ID card in whatever name Mr. Whyte had adopted at the time to leave the ship and then reboard. Someone like our Señor Cabrera.”

“What would be the point of that?”

“If Mr. Whyte were not present to handle the transfer of funds, Señor Cabrera could have them sent wherever he wanted. Not necessarily where Mr. Whyte intended for them to go.”

“So how could he make sure that the couple, and everyone else, thought they were seasick?”

“Remember the hot chocolate?”

“That Señor Cabrera ordered the night before they docked?”

“Yes. If you look more carefully at what the room steward reported, you will see that the couple ordered a pot of hot chocolate every night. Spiked with a substantial amount of rum, which is common in South America.”

“Wouldn’t that upset their stomachs worse if they were seasick?”

“Perhaps, but among certain folklore, cacao, brewed into a beverage, is reputed to settle one’s stomach. Señor Cabrera may have introduced that notion and encouraged his fellow passengers to try the remedy.”

Sierra frowned. “I thought the traditional cacao beverages were quite bitter. And foamy.”

“Indeed they are. And likely to be unappealing to the British palate. So they ordered hot chocolate, instead. And Señor Cabrera joined them for a drink each evening.”

“Odd.”

“Not really. They were not experienced sailors, and may have relied on Señor Cabrera’s supposed wisdom. Have you ever heard of theobromine?”

“No. What’s that?”

“That’s one of the active ingredients in cacao and chocolate. Very toxic to dogs; that’s why you should never give a dog chocolate. It’s less toxic to people, but too much of it will cause a person to have severe stomach upsets. I have a feeling our Señor Cabrera decided to introduce his neighbors to the delights of South American chocolate drinks, but was nearly thwarted when they rejected it. However, he managed to switch them to the spiked hot chocolate drink—which is truly superb when properly prepare—and added concentrated theobromine to their drinks. That way, should they ever decide to seek medical attention for their stomach ailments, even extensive tests would merely reveal the presence of the natural ingredients of the hot chocolate.”

“Why didn’t Señor Cabrera get sick, too?”

“He did enjoy the hot chocolate, in fact, enough that he ordered it on his own the last evening. But he never added the concentrated theobromine to the pot until after he had poured his own drink.”

“If he were able to doctor their drinks on a regular basis, they must have gotten together fairly frequently.”

“They probably did. It would take only a modicum of caution to slip between the rooms with no one being the wiser.”

“That doesn’t explain how Señor Cabrera was killed. Or why.”

“I imagine that just before docking, the real Martyn Whyte managed to contact one of the institutions where he made arrangements to have funds transferred from South America. And discovered that nothing had been deposited. He must have been furious, so went to see Señor Cabrera. And stabbed him.”

“But there were so signs of a struggle.”

“I suspect Señor Cabrera, if he is ever identified, will be discovered to be a recognized underworld character with a somewhat checkered, probably violent, past. He had naïvely categorized Mr. Whyte as a white-collar, middle-aged banker and did not think him capable of violence. So Señor Cabrera played Mr. Whyte for a fool. And was caught unawares. Fatally unawares.”

Sierra shook her head. “Under the right circumstances, anyone is capable of violence. And murder.”

“Indeed. And Mr. Whyte had already risked all for this one-shot attempt at wealth. He had very little to lose.”

“I thought he was embezzling to pay off gambling debts.”

“There is a certain truth to that. Señor Cabrera most likely in the employ of the gambling syndicate to whom Mr. Whyte was indebted. Mr. Whyte, quite knowledgeable about banking and investment, nonetheless needed to solicit the assistance of the syndicate to carry the entire project forward, intending to pay off his debts and still have a comfortable fortune for himself and his lady friend. But Señor Cabrera got greedy and diverted the bulk of it to his own accounts.”

“Why did Mr. Whyte leave the British passport for the investigators to find?”

I wiggled my unshod toes comfortably. “In the hopes that someone would come to the conclusion that Martyn Whyte had been murdered and the search for him would be discontinued.”

“But that didn’t happen.”

“No. But there was a chance it might.”

“What will Mr. Whyte do now?”

“He undoubtedly has a fairly substantial cash stash somewhere, probably in Europe. A working and emergency fund. He was a man who would have created a backup in case the original plan went awry. Which it did.”

“Europe? Wouldn’t that be dangerous? Won’t they be on the lookout for him?”

“You might think so. But since Brexit, there is no valid extradition treaty between the European Union and Great Britain. I’m sure that will be corrected eventually. And I’m sure there is currently cooperation in monitoring terrorist activity and the like. But a white-collar financial crime that has very little international impact? Right now, no one outside the British banking system will give that a second glance.”

“And what will happen to all the money Señor Cabrera stashed away? Will the gambling syndicate get it?”

“I doubt it. He probably intended to pay the syndicate what they were owed, then retire himself on the remaining funds. After all, he must have hidden the money well. And as far as I can see, no law enforcement would be looking for him. Even if they could figure out who he was.”

“Where do you think most of the money is?”

“I suspect in Cheyenne.”

“Wyoming?”

“Have you ever heard of the ‘cowboy cocktail’?”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a strange situation set up by some naïve state legislators in Wyoming to encourage investment. Presently, the laws there are quite favorable to money laundering and hiding the source of funds. Not to mention that the identity of the holder can be buried under layers of almost unregulated corporations, until it’s virtually impossible to trace the money. It will probably sit there, invested, accumulating interest and profits for a good while before anyone realizes there is no one at the helm of the corporations. And even then, since no one thought through the consequences of the legislation, they may not know what to do about it.”

“Are we going to try to trace the money? Or find Martyn Whyte?”

“No. The insurance company hired us to explain what happened. Given what is known, they have the capability to find most of their money. Once they have that, they really don’t care what happens to Martyn Whyte. Who, together with his companion, is undoubtedly settling in an expatriate colony somewhere in the world under his assumed identity.”

I slipped my feet back into my slippers. “So you see, we have no further need to work on this case. And definitely no need to run off to Miami on a wild goose chase, especially when the geese have long since fled.”

Sierra, who did like to travel, sighed and began gathering up the files.

I pushed my chair back. “I am going to prepare some hot chocolate. And add some of that excellent Jamaican rum. Would you like a cup?”

Sierra’s mouth fell open and her eyes opened wide. “Not on your life!”